When I was growing up, any time I found myself close to the edge I wrote my grandmother, in heaven, and told her my frustrations. I felt like she would have listened with empathetic ears, based on our past times before the cancer ripped her from my life. When the letter was done I always destroyed it in some way or another, so my melodramatic honesty couldn’t be found.
I burned it, ripped it, drenched the ink till it melted from the page.
A part of me mourns the lost words from my frustrated youth, but they are blowing in the wind much like her seagull spirit.